The Pressures of War
by perspective21
Summary: Hermione's fought long and hard to maintain her dignity. It's only fitting that a Weasley twin be her undoing. Rated M. For sex. GWHG


**A/N: **My first **M**ature fic. Rated M for… well, sex. Sex and language. Type me a review. Tell me if I did it justice.

000

"The Pressures of War"

…

"Fuck, Granger!" the boy above her yelped when teeth caught at the skin below his ear painfully.

Hermione repressed a blush and smirked, lapping at the mark in reprieve and earning herself a low groan in return.

Admittedly, it was the first time she had ever heard him curse out right. Rude gestures, milder language, and mischievous grins colored her vague perception of him. The grip of his warm fingers around her breast, the dirty words, and the sinful smirks were all astonishingly new.

He rolled his hips against hers and she gasped into his mouth. The breath expelled by his quite chuckle passed against her lips briefly, but it lingered long enough to send delicious tremors throughout her body.

"Again," Hermione managed to bite out while she brought her hands to his hair, clenching them tightly around the silky strands at the back of his head as he began to grind the bulge in his jeans against the crevice between her thighs. The pressure flooded her senses and the rhythmic jolts of pleasure traveling up her lower anatomy dragged a suppressed mewl from the back of her throat.

_This, _she thought to herself, _is not happening_.

And it was a plausible thought. In every scenario and circumstance she could have dreamed up for their respective lives, an intimate encounter between the two of them-such as the one she now appeared to be entangled in-had no place. Having looked upon him since she was eleven years old as a reckless-but rather harmless-fool-hardy house acquaintance, who attracted trouble like bludgers to beaters' bats, nothing could have made them more suited to the other.

Save, perhaps, a war.

"You treat yourself to all the blokes who come knocking on your door late at night, Granger?" He questioned jokingly while forcing her out of the thin shirt she had worn to bed and leaning down to close chapped lips around a dusty rose-colored nipple.

"_Aah_," Hermione gasped, slightly affronted but decidedly more turned on by the feel of his wet tongue lightly flicking the little bud repeatedly.

It was, without a doubt, the most insulting thing he had ever said to her. But, she conceded, their current situation could hardly provide one with a large arsenal of the tame, innocent little jokes she was accustomed to. Though knowing better than to ever trust herself in his presence, never had she considered being on the receiving end of one of the dirtier tricks he pulled.

"Afraid not," she managed to force out while scrambling frantically for the button on his jeans and attempting to remain on-task during his steady ministrations. "you're just… _mmm_… convenient."

He broke away in sudden annoyance at her fumbling and shrugged clumsily out of the offending garment before returning and deftly sweeping her own shorts down and off of her body.

"Well, then, little bookworm," a pause as he placed a hot, open-mouthed kiss to her inner thigh, "let me be the first to deliver."

Deftly moving back up her body and eyeing her with the familiar boyish twinkle in his eyes that Hermione knew had charmed so many school girls before her, he leaned down to meet her in a rough, wet kiss. As their bare flesh met again, the back of her mind registered that it was, in fact, the truth.

…

The Weasley twin's presence in her room on the night when she had been lying in bed, pathetically licking her wounds while the rest of the house moaned and groaned with similar choruses of strange love affairs, was entirely convenient.

For a year and some odd months now she had avoided this game, tirelessly telling herself that she had better things to do than participate in a smattering of sweaty, smelly one-night stands. That would be taking the easy way out. If she gave in, she would only regret it at the end of the war; it was the half-assed way of coping with a rotten world.

That was her problem. She was still looking for an end to the war, an end to the bloodshed and the pain and the death count. Most of them—the young Order members and the rest of the displaced, struggling occupants of the Wizarding World—were not quite so patient or optimistic.

They copulated freely, taking anything they could get as the last they might have. Three more deaths to haunt you at night or a quick, dirty shag to put you to sleep.

They chose the latter. And she really didn't blame them. It was just… she couldn't. Had never been able to take a step back and be in the moment. Always being two steps ahead had kept her on her toes, ready at a moment's notice for the unknown. It had kept her alive this long.

How they had all suffered. How she had suffered; dragging her body wearily upstairs to the empty bedroom in the safehouse that she had claimed as hers many months ago, to nurse her aching heart alone.

This night had been worse than usual. Curled up on the bed, the tears streaming down her cheeks, Hermione felt the lack of a warm body beside her more than ever as the lifeless image of Neville Longbottom floated behind her drooping eyelids.

And then, quite suddenly, there he had been, standing masked by the shadows in her doorway after banging his way into the room.

Tears forgotten, she was up and out of the bed in less than a second, wand pointing menacingly at the figure.

"Wait, wait, it's just me! Granger, is that... is that you?" His hands were in the air, unarmed, and he took a tentative step forward.

Releasing a large breath, Hermione lowered her wand in annoyance.

"George, you scared me half to death, what do you mean by barging in here unannounced?" She scolded.

"Didn't know the room was taken," he supplied, glancing around, checking absently for other occupants. His gaze settled back on her, "everywhere else is full. I just got back."

Hermione nodded in understanding.

"Anyone..?"

"None, we were lucky. Can't say the same for those other bastards," George answered.

"Good."

Calmed by the news, Hermione strapped her wand back in its holster and made to return to the bed before she realized George was still standing silently in the doorway.

"You mind if I crash here? As I've said, everywhere else is full."

"Oh."

It hit her. George was asking to stay in the room. With her. In her bed. With her. The only visitors she'd ever had were Ron, Harry, and Ginny. Anyone else she staunchly avoided.

She chanced a quick glance at his face as she bit her lip in contemplation. Neville danced across her eyes again and the sharp pangs of guilt and sorrow returned.

George stood, shifting from one foot to the other, his eyes weary. A loud moan filtered down from the floor above them and as the raunchy grin bloomed on his freckled face, she made her decision.

"Alright, stay."

His twinkling eyes moved back down to hers and the grin lingered as the prankster shut the door behind him and made his way to her bed.

…

She had done this once before, Hermione reflected while she reveled in the feeling of George's smooth, hard member pressed demandingly against her belly. With his brother.

They never talked about it. She and Ron. It had been awkward and strange, but sweet. Gentle. Back when time had been kind to them all.

Soon after, when the odds began to tip precariously back and forth, never knowing which side the fight favored, he had taken up with Susan Bones. She was soft-spoken, easy to get along with, and listened to him.

Hermione harbored little resentment. She understood some people had to take comfort wherever they could get it.

Like now.

She slid her tongue over his. Again and Again. His lips pressed hard while his tongue fought hers, licking and stroking. They took shaky, shallow breaths in between bitten lips and scraping teeth.

"Oh, Granger," She heard George growl out between kisses. "You're… going to be… so. much. fun."

And then two long fingers pressed down between her legs and Hermione bucked her hips up wildly into him.

"_Oooh_!" Her brief cry slid into his mouth as his fingers began a tortuous pace against her clit.

A warm, pleasant tingle traveled steadily down from her abdomen until it met her hot, wet center.

Frantically, she turned her head away from him, clenched her eyes shut, and bit her lip.

"Please, please, _please_," Hermione murmured, her voice trembling.

Another chuckle and she felt George press his face into her neck, his freckled nose brushing softly against her ear.

"Merlin, little bookworm," he sighed as he inserted a digit into her, "you certainly know how to let a bloke know he's doing a good job."

"Oh, shut it, Weasley," she bit back, digging her fingernails into his back.

He pulled away and Hermione's eyes flew open, startled, before she felt him push her thighs wider apart and press his straining prick against her aching center.

George met her eyes with a naughty smirk. She was taken back, suddenly, to a different time. A time when he was standing before her, daring her to take points from Gryffindor House and keeping his newest product up in the air, just out of her reach.

"Tell me, have I exceeded your expectations yet?" He questioned, poised above her, frustratingly out of reach.

Hermione groaned in annoyance and lifted her hips, attempting to push herself down onto him. When the prankster pulled back from her teasingly, she let out needy cry and pulled him down.

"Yes!" She whispered angrily into his good ear, "yes, you insufferable prat, now finish the job before I change my mind and give you a T for your dismal display of effort!"

"Oh, Granger, I love it when you talk naughty professor to me," he quipped one last time with a thrust his hips.

His member sank heavenly into her and their simultaneous groans reassured Hermione that he wanted—no, _needed_—this just as much as she did.

As the Weasley twin began to rut rhythmically into her, Hermione muffled her cries into his shoulder and pressed her nails harder into his skin.

The next fifteen minutes passed blissfully with a steady chorus of _aaaaahs _and _mmmhpms_. The sound of George's low moaning serving only, and strangely, to increase Hermione's own heady arousal.

"Oh, oh, ooh, _Geeoorge_," she murmured against his lips, while his upper body strained to support himself.

He leaned his head down and against hers, hips pushing mercilessly into hers.

"Ah, Granger, fuck… _fuck_."

_This_, Hermione thought as she closed her eyes and gave herself over fully to the delightful feeling of having him fill her and push repeatedly _**just there**_, _Is exactly what I needed._

Finally, as the pressure within her became almost unbearable, she felt George stiffen above her and his pace increase erratically.

Another minute later and with a final deep thrust into her, the pleasure burst like a bubble of ecstasy and engulfed her. It sent tremors down her spine, causing her to arch up with a loud cry into the shaking man above her, who ground his teeth together to contain the groan threatening to push past his lips as he spilled his seed inside her.

…

He lay on his stomach with a long leg thrown half-way off the bed and an arm dangling over the edge. Hermione watched the rise and fall of his back contentedly from the small space between the wall and the gangly form of the sleeping giant beside her.

He rested peacefully and Hermione couldn't help but feel grateful that she had at least aided in providing some relief to a man weighed down by war. She felt the blanket of sleep loom over her own sated body and wondered if this was just the beginning.

Had she, too, finally succumbed to the pressures of war?

…

She didn't see him for the next two weeks, but when he finally ended up back in the same house he didn't spare her a second glance. He settled down to dinner with his usual antics, causing a ruckus and using his affable personality to ease the tension that moved heavily throughout the room.

He offered a wink to the giggling Lavender Brown, his lips turned upwards in a mischievous smirk.

Hermione left dinner early, brushed her teeth methodically and huddled under the worn blankets on her bed.

There was nothing to make sense of, she told herself.

There was nothing to expect, she chastised, and willed her eyes shut determinedly.

But then, there he was, quietly shutting the door behind him and shrinking out of his clothes. He ambled towards the bed and climbed in, pulling her firmly against him and muting her protests with a soft sigh into her bushy brown hair.

…

**FIN**


End file.
